


Entanglement

by lindt_barton



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mind Meld, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: "You can stay at my place. If you'd like."The pillows have flattened the bright spikes of Crowley’s hair, robbed him of his affectation. All the pain, betrayal, bitterness, and disappointment that make him a demon have melted away. And in that body, completely in that body, he looks so unfathomably young to Aziraphale.





	Entanglement

**Author's Note:**

> I got so mad that I couldn't work out how they thought to swap faces that I wrote a bed sharing fic...

_You can stay at my place, if you'd like._

* * *

They get the 2A bus to Oxford city centre (via Mayfair) together.

It must be habit, latent from the 18th century, Crowley standing first when they stop, to hold out a hand to help Aziraphale up. He only realises what he’s done when he finds himself hand in hand with Aziraphale, staring dumbstruck into his eyes. He’d spent most of the journey avoiding them. Relatively easy when sitting side-by-side, you’d think, yet his neck aches from the effort.

They’re the same blue as the first ocean’s which they’d watched formed, standing shoulder to shoulder, throwing tiny glances and smiles each other’s way. It always takes him some moments to pull himself back to the present when he sees them. Because it had been beautiful, that day.

He only makes it back when his thumb grazes absently over Aziraphale’s knuckles and Aziraphale squeezes in return, telling him, _Let’s go home, my dear._

* * *

Crowley throws his keys into a bowl by the door. He hadn’t needed them to open it, and they land with a jangle in a pile of identical sets of keys. “Alright,” he says walking down the hallway, “Where would you like to sleep?”

Following, Aziraphale asks, “Sleep?” as if the act had never occurred to him.

Come to think of it, Crowley’s never seen any evidence of a flat about Aziraphale’s bookshop. He’d always thought their drunken late-nights-through-to-mornings had been sleepless because he couldn’t pull himself away from Aziraphale. And that they never moved upstairs because he wasn’t invited, but perhaps that back room was as invited as he could be. That had never occurred to him.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he spins to walk backwards, “You’ve been missing out.”

“On- on nothingness?”

“On sloth!” he throws his arms in the air, “Luxury! _Everything!_ ” His voice falls to a conspiratorial whisper, “I have the most sinful bed.”

Aziraphale raises a single brow, and looks down his nose at Crowley, “I don’t doubt that.”

“You’ll love it,” he winks and spins back around, every inch of his body now swaying with mischievous glee. Aziraphale can’t muster a comeback. He huffs a grumpy breath out of his nose instead.

That is until Crowley’s fingertips glance his bedroom door, when he asks, “Where will _you_ sleep?”

Crowley has a sofa. It’s an obscenely stylish sofa, and entirely useless for generating any amount of comfort, for exactly that reason.

A human in his position would sleep on the sofa, even if they could feel it for a week. Crowley knows this. “Oh. There’s room for both of us.” He’s banking on the fact that Aziraphale might not.

“Now,” Crowley pushes open the grand double doors to his room, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

As he steps through his clothes drift off of him in a cloud of sooty smoke, replaced by deep charcoal coloured silk trousers, and a black undershirt. At first all Aziraphale sees are fine pale shoulders, and perhaps slightly more soft bronze hair on his forearms than expected.

But beyond him: A glass deco chandelier casting shards of soft light across nearly black walls, a white thickly textured rug, almost long enough to spill into the hall, over the nearly black hardwood floor, and in the centre of the room: yards upon yards of that same deep charcoal silk on the obscene number of pillows and throws on Crowley’s king size bed. It does indeed look like a site fit for sins of both a slothful and lusty nature. Perhaps greed and pride just for owning it too.

Crowley saunters towards it, hops forwards onto its end, and then flops forwards into it. He pulls his sunglasses out from underneath himself and reaches them onto his bedside table without looking.

Aziraphale follows. Three layers of tweed, flannel and linen float off of him, replaced by a shin-length cream sleep shirt, thick fluffy baby blue socks, and a very fetching striped blue nightcap. He though, lingers. He strolls around the periphery, past a steel framed, black leather chair and a circular glass-topped table nestled in a corner, with a couple of gallery catalogues strewn on it. He suspects Crowley may have converted them into black and white, to match the rest of the room.

Crowley lies halfway down the bed, legs and arms akimbo, hands behind his head. He’s watching Aziraphale half watch him. He arches his back, stretches his arms above his head, wiggles his toes. The pale crests of his pelvis peek out, and his ribcage stands out through the fabric of his vest. Aziraphale looks away.

Looks to the floor to ceiling windows that make up the outer wall. Crowley snaps his fingers and the chandelier falls dark, leaving the room lit only by the vertical bars of thick sodium light from the street lamp outside, and letting Aziraphale see through the sheer curtains to the street below.

A lone woman in nurses’ scrubs, carrying a shoulder bag walks past beneath him. He watches her until she turns the corner. And then he searches the street again. “They’re going to find us you know,” he says.

Crowley emits a loud wheedling string of gobbledegook as he tries to find the right words. “We’ll sort it out,” is all he comes up with.

“Demons don’t burn, Angel, we don’t burn each other.” Pause. “Really, you’re the one in danger of a burning.”

“Heaven doesn’t _have_ hellfire. They’d have to consort with hell to get it.” Like me, Crowley. “And they’d never-”

“Please, you don’t think those self-righteous arse-”

“Righteous.”

“-holes couldn’t justify-” Crowley interrupts himself, “Do you still believe that?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply. In the silence, Crowley sighs softly and peels himself out of the bed. He pads to Aziraphale’s right shoulder, curved just slightly, pulled towards him. “Come sleep, Angel.” He rests two fingers on Aziraphale’s wrist as if to pull. _Please._

Aziraphale half turns, half looks up at him, expectant, “I thought you said you were going to show me.” Crowley drops his hand. Aziraphale catches it.

Tonight, it feels like they’ve been tied gently together in a way that they weren’t before. Crowley now in his grasp, Aziraphale turns fully, and though Crowley walks ahead, it’s Aziraphale who leads, pushing him back with his gaze. Crowley almost wonders if entanglement is somehow the point of that Ineffable Plan that Aziraphale still believes in. Or perhaps even he’s given up on plans. Perhaps they’re just doomed convicts shackled together, being served their final meal.

The mattress hits the back of Crowley’s knees, and he sits suddenly. He crawls backwards into the bed, not letting go and not looking away as Aziraphale stands over him. He is just a little bit out of breath. Aziraphale-

Aziraphale neatly lowers himself onto the bed beside Crowley. He lies, half-upright in all those pillows, rests his free hand on his stomach and the other, releasing Crowley’s, onto _his_ chest. He splays his fingers wide feeling the give of soft cotton over human skin.

Crowley arches his back like he had before, but now Aziraphale feels how he takes in a great breath as his body goes taut, and releases it as he relaxes into the bed. He snuffles around for a second to get comfy, and Aziraphale watching him, draws idle shapes on his sternum with his thumb. Crowley settles with one leg straight, one bent, one hand thrown above his head, the other curled around Aziraphale’s forearm. Face half turned towards him, eyes half open watching him. A chaotic diagonal, pointed towards Aziraphale. As Crowley’s eyes drift shut, ceasing to watch and only be watched, Aziraphale feels his body go slack, and slacker still under his hand. Aziraphale feels a deep part of himself relax in return.

The pillows have flattened the bright spikes of Crowley’s hair, robbed him of his affectation. All the pain, betrayal, bitterness, and disappointment that make him a demon have melted away. And in that body, completely in that body, he looks so unfathomably young to Aziraphale. Because what’s forty years to an angel? Not enough. Five hundred? Not enough. Six thousand? Not enough. What about only tomorrow?

Crowley sighs and squeezes Aziraphale’s arm in response to the involuntary flinch that Aziraphale had telegraphed to him, telling him, _Come join me, Angel._

Perhaps he has the right idea. Aziraphale closes his eyes. He does seem to have had a couple of those over the years. There is only Crowley’s slow and steady heartbeat. And the heat rising from his chest, which could be seen with angelic eyes, but only felt with human flesh. Aziraphale breathes. His heart slows. He follows Crowley.

Only once Aziraphale has fallen too does his body do what it had wanted, what it had wanted the whole night, the whole century. He pulls his hand back to his own chest, and laced with it: Crowley’s. And he, without Aziraphale’s hand holding him down shifts restlessly until he drifts back into Aziraphale. He curls into the shadow behind Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale’s arm curls over Crowley’s shoulders, and his fingers sneak into his hair. Crowley responds by wrapping Aziraphale even more completely in all of his limbs. A casual observer might suspect that he’d corporated an extra one or two especially. Aziraphale’s body almost laughs, _Yes, of course he is, of course he is much more of a cuddler than a demon ought to be._

* * *

They wake with their legs and their souls tangled together. Both draped in cool morning sunlight. They watch as he pushes himself up on his elbows. They look down at him and the sun strikes his brow and nose like it strikes dreamed rolling hills. His eyelashes glint gold as they blink. They look up at him and the sun shines through his hair and it lights like Holy fire. He runs their fingers down his arm, over the spare muscles, the fine bronze hair he had appreciated before. They feel it and they are felt. His eyes are wide. Their eyes amber. Their eyes blue. They feel the wonder quivering in his chest and in his fingertips.

They could sit like this, content with restless hands, for a long, long time, they think. But they can’t. They _can_. They’ve sinned and they don’t- They’ve _rebelled_ and it’s- bad- it’s _good_. They need to run. They need to charge. They need to be _careful_. _No-_

Aziraphale, looking away, starts folding himself back into the correct body. Your arms, my arms. Your legs, my legs. He selects a nose, eyes, mouth, and very carefully he chooses his face and not-

They feel the silent thrill shoot through both of their chests. Their last sensation. The realisation. The accidental quotation. And with it the furious hunger to live at least one more day. The absolute refusal to end.

Aziraphale gasps. Mouth wide. Eyes wide. He points and points and points at Crowley, who’s face is breaking into an exultant, sloppy smile, “I told you we’d sort it out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> could be followed by [this drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153066/chapters/45628693) or preceded by [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241875)
> 
> come say hi [on tumblr](http://liznt.tumblr.com)


End file.
